


comatose, holy dosed

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [4]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Hair Washing, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 02:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: The first time, it's an accident.





	comatose, holy dosed

The first time, it’s an accident.

They’re fucking in the communal kitchen - mostly because it’s convenient but also because Clint’s too tired to go down the twenty flights of stairs to his floor and the elevator’s broken. Bucky doesn’t really care as long as he gets to keep touching, to keep feeling Clint’s lips on his neck. They haven’t gotten any further than lazy morning hand jobs, Clint sitting on the counter with his legs spread and Bucky standing between them.

Bucky comes first, gasps against Clint’s messy bedhair and tries not to knock his hearing aids off in the hot wave of pleasure.

When he can’t stand Clint’s rough fingers on him any longer he leans back, takes in the sight of his boyfriend all sleep-dazed and warm, illuminated by the windows behind him, sweatpants pushed down his thighs. Clint looks like one of those marble statues in the museum like this, all curved muscles and wordless beauty.

Except Bucky’s allowed to _touch,_ to get his hands all over Clint without fear of repercussions. He keeps looking, rubs his fingers up one thigh teasingly and keeps stroking his dick with the other.

Clint arches into his grip and Bucky gets caught up in looking, the faint flush on his cheeks and the way his lip is caught in his teeth at some attempt to be quiet.

“God, you’re fucking _beautiful,_” Bucky breathes, a little awestruck and reverent. “So gorgeous, baby.”

Clint’s breath catches audibly then, like he’s forgotten how to _breathe_ and then he’s making a mess of his chest and Bucky’s fingers, shuddering hard under Bucky’s wandering hands.

Clint lets his head fall forward after, presses his sweaty forehead against Bucky’s shoulder and makes a noise that’s almost a whimper. His breathing still sounds erratic even as he comes back from the orgasm, and when Bucky tries to entice him into moving Clint grabs at his shirt and makes him stay a few minutes longer. It’s a different reaction to the usual post-orgasm jokes and general easy-going nature Clint has when they’re fucking, but it’s not too weird, so Bucky doesn’t think too much of it.

Bucky likes baths.

There’s something about being submerged in near-boiling hot water - maybe it’s that it’s the opposite of what was done to him with Hydra, still trying to melt the ice in his veins even when he hasn’t seen a cryochamber in a long time. Either way, he makes time to run a bath and light a few candles, relax into the steam and heat.

That’s what he’s doing when Clint drifts into the bathroom, lazing in the tub with one foot over the side.

It’s fairly normal for this to occur, because Clint doesn’t have any sense of personal space and Bucky doesn’t mind one bit. Clint’s eyes rake over him and then he smiles, the kind of stupidly smitten look he gets when he sees Bucky enjoying himself. He sinks down to his knees next to the tub in a surprisingly graceful move, leans in for a kiss.

“Honey, I’m home,” Clint says, with amusement in his voice.

Bucky gets the feeling that’s a reference or something, but he doesn’t really care enough to question it, lets his head fall back. “Good. You can make yourself useful and wash my hair.”

“Oh, saving the world isn’t enough for you, Sergeant Barnes?” Clint might be all snark but his fingers still end up in Bucky’s hair, carding gently through the damp strands. It’s _nice,_ and Bucky sighs when the touch disappears and he hears the pop of the shampoo’s cap, breathes in the scent of coconut and lime.

Then Clint’s hands are back, scratching lightly at his scalp, and it’s pure bliss.

“You’re real good at this,” Bucky tells him.

“You’re just easy,” Clint dismisses the compliment instantly but his voice sounds a little shaky.

“No, it’s you,” Bucky answers, closes his eyes. “So good to me, makin’ me feel nice. You’re a doll.”

Clint makes a sound that’s half-squeak, and Bucky opens his eyes again when the hands disappear from his head. “All done,” Clint says, a little too hurried to be normal, and Bucky watches him make a swift exit, tries not to be too baffled by the confusing behaviour. It’s Clint, after all.

Then it’s because of the damn archery.

Bucky’s always had a competence kink a mile long, and he’s got JARVIS notifying him when Clint’s in the range just for this purpose. The little icon appears on his phone; a tiny purple animation of a bow and arrow being shot by invisible hands and Bucky pulls on a pair of jeans and makes his way downstairs.

He gets to the range in time to see Clint’s biceps flex as he releases the arrow, lets out a blissful sigh and leans up against the doorway.

Bucky watches Clint shoot methodically for a while, enjoys the single-minded concentration on his face. He’s not allowed on missions as a rule - not that he _wants_ to be, not really - so this is the only time he gets to see Clint in action _in person,_ and it’s great. There’s a kind of discipline to archery that is missing with guns, and Clint’s all lethal grace and tightly-coiled strength like this. Bucky’s not ashamed to admit he gets really hot for it.

He lets Clint shoot a few more bullseyes before he approaches, then plasters himself up against Clint’s back like an particularly friendly leech. Clint’s warm against him, and Bucky sees the barest hint of a smile before he lines up another shot.

“Enjoying the view, Barnes?”

Clint sounds more amused than annoyed, so Bucky takes the opportunity to slide a hand up his Black Widow t-shirt, feels up the muscles underneath as Clint lets the arrow go.

“Do you have _any_ idea how hot that is,” he mutters in Clint’s ear. “How does anyone get anything done when you look like _this?”_

“Other people have muscles, Buck,” Clint replies, sounding a little strained.

“Other people aren’t you,” Bucky reasons, lets his fingers drift back down to Clint’s waistband. “Never met anyone who looks this fuckin’ irresistible with a weapon in their hands. Look so good with your bow.”

He’s just randomly running his mouth but he feels Clint twitch, going tense for a second before he makes the next shot. Bucky turns his head away from where he’s been mouthing lazily at Clint’s neck to check out the target.

It’s half an inch off from the bullseye.

Bucky stares. As frisky as he’s gotten on the range before, _that’s_ never happened. Clint never misses, not even blindfolded or half-dead or upside down. Clint seems frozen too, doesn't move.

“Oh my _god_,_”_ Tony groans. “Really, Sniper Sidekicks? Is nowhere sacred anymore?”

Bucky jumps at that, turns to glare at Tony standing in the doorway. He’s expecting a smart remark from Clint at Tony’s complaints, so he’s surprised when there isn’t one. When he glances back Clint’s looking hazy, pupils blown to hell and fingers twitching where they’re wrapped around his bow. He looks _gone,_ and he’s still half-hard in his shorts, worn-soft cotton leaving nothing to the imagination.

He doesn’t _mean_ to do it again - not that he had any _real_ intention the other times, but it’s what finally gives him clarity on the situation.

“Sit down,” Bucky orders when Clint stumbles out of the shower.

He’s not _quite_ limping but Bucky was watching the footage of the Avengers and their latest fight, Bucky saw him hit the concrete at a bad angle and knew he wouldn’t go to a medic. Clint doesn’t like inconveniencing people, which would be a good thing except he’s passed out from stab wounds that ‘aren’t that bad, Bucky, _seriously_’ __before. There’s a few cuts on his face but Bucky ignores them for now, points at the couch with a scowl.

Clint’s used to his gentle bullying by now, just sighs and sinks down into the cushions.

Bucky checks for fractures, light touches as he presses down on the already bruising skin, confirms it’s just a nasty sprain. Clint hisses but lets him continue, barely flinches at the pain. He’s been walking around on this for an hour; he’s _ridiculous_ and Bucky wants to smack him for not taking care of himself, but it’s _Clint,_ he’s only going to worry about everyone else.

Bucky pulls out an elastic bandage for compression, adjusts and starts wrapping at his toes to hopefully stave off the worst of the swelling. Clint looks like he’s about to fall asleep right there even with the pain, but Bucky needs him awake so he can bundle him off to bed once he’s done, so he starts talking.

“I saw you save those kids,” he says.

“Mm,” Clint answers, a little distant-sounding. “’s nothing.”

“It wasn’t _nothing,_” Bucky says, gentle but firm. “I didn’t see anyone else watching them. Just you. You did a good thing today, sweetheart.”

Clint makes a noise and it sounds a little _off,_ but Bucky’s trying to focus on wrapping his foot and doesn’t look up. He’s vaguely worried the bandage might be too tight and then ditches that idea, because he’s been doing first-aid for about ninety years and he knows what he’s doing, keeps talking.

“You’re out there saving lives. Those kids are going to remember you for the rest of their lives, and they can do that because you’re out there,” he continues. “You’re a hero. I’m proud of you.”

When he’s done, he presses a light kiss to the bandage and Clint honest-to-god _shudders_ underneath his lips.

_Oh,_ Bucky thinks, and the puzzle pieces he’s collected in the last few weeks start to fit into a picture.

He still has to make _sure,_ though, so he starts small.

The next morning, Clint’s sleepily shuffling around the communal kitchen. Bucky sits at the counter, watches him move through the routine of putting the coffee grounds in, turning the coffee machine on and feeling around for a cup. Clint finds his purple H mug without even looking, and then pulls out a World’s Best Grandpa mug as well, fills it up first and then rounds the counter to sit next to Bucky.

Bucky takes the offered mug, then leans over to kiss Clint’s cheek. “Thanks, baby. You’re sweet.”

Now he’s watching for it, he can see the way Clint flushes, squirms a little in his seat.

It’s _cute._

The next afternoon, Clint’s working on a tactical plan with Natasha and Bucky joins them, sits himself down in the corner of the room and watches. Clint eyes him off while Natasha’s talking, looks wary, but he seems to forget about his nerves when he’s plotting out an ambush on the on-screen diagram. Bucky lets him have this, sits there quietly while he’s working out ways to eliminate the enemy.

When he’s done, though, Bucky meets his gaze.

“You’re doing great,” he says quietly. “Got you a little something for doing a good job.”

Clint looks at the proffered gift like it’s a live bomb. It’s just a piece of cake from his favourite shop, but Clint looks twitchy even as he accepts it, mumbles out a half-hearted excuse and flees.

Bucky figures it out pretty quickly. It’s not _strictly_ a sex thing, the praise, but during sex is the _easiest_ way to do it because then Clint can’t make a quick escape.

That’s not strictly true, actually - he _could_ escape, if he really wanted to, that’s what the safeword is for - but he’s less likely to run away when Bucky’s riding his dick.

“Fuck,” Clint breathes.

Bucky agrees wholeheartedly, splays his hands out on Clint’s chest and closes his eyes briefly, takes in the feeling of Clint hot and hard inside him. It’s hard-won, getting Clint underneath him, but on the rare occasions it does happen it’s _gorgeous,_ getting him all spread out on the mattress where Bucky can touch every inch of his skin and commit it to memory. Bucky rolls his hips slowly, feels the pleasure spark up his spine.

Clint’s biting his lip as Bucky rides him, fingers grasping at the sheets. The curves of his muscles are beautiful under the faint glow from the moonlight, curves that Bucky can _touch,_ thumbs over a nipple and then drags the blunt nails of his right hand hard over Clint’s skin. Clint arches up into it, whines when Bucky keeps going slow, drawing it out and teasing him.

Bucky presses a kiss to his collarbone, up his throat, just fleeting little things that have Clint squirming.

Bucky feels him move, grazes his teeth against the line of Clint’s jaw in warning. “Hands down, Barton.”

It’s a test, and he’s not sure if it’ll work but when he looks Clint’s put his hands down against the bed. He has to hide his smile in Clint’s neck as he thrusts down a little harder, revels in the soft gasp Clint makes. Clint’s usually quiet during sex, all barely-audible sounds and the odd curse or two, and Bucky finds it nice, but he’s aiming for something else here, rubs his stubbled cheek against Clint’s skin.

“That’s good,” he says softly, feels Clint still under him. “That’s perfect, baby. You’re perfect.”

Clint makes a sound that’s more of a whine and Bucky feels it under his hands, presses feather-light kisses along his shoulder. “Okay? I can stop.”

“I’m-” Clint starts, voice hoarse. Bucky thinks he’s going to call it quits, prepares himself to move and then Clint speaks again. “Don’t stop.”

He sounds _wrecked_ and Bucky reflexively clenches around him, tries to concentrate on talking instead of the drag of Clint’s cock. Pushes up a few inches so he can see Clint’s face, try to look him in the eye. Clint won’t look at him directly, dilated pupils directed up at the ceiling. His lip is caught between his teeth again, face flushed and breathing rapid. Embarrassment, maybe, but definitely not a _no._

Bucky _likes_ it. Likes that _Clint_ likes it, at least, keeps the slow rolling pace as he drifts his metal fingers over Clint’s bicep. There’s tension in the muscles there, like Clint’s struggling to stay still, and when Bucky looks his hands are fisted tight in the sheets.

“You’re being so good for me, aren’t you, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Staying still for me. You like being good, Clint?”

Clint makes a noise that’s dangerously close to a whimper and Bucky ignores the stab of satisfaction in his gut, runs his hands down Clint’s chest again. There’s a scar above his navel, a sharp line that he’s been told before is from a sword, and Bucky traces it idly. There’s no verbal answer from Clint, but the noise was enough, really.

“Yeah, you do,” Bucky answers himself, takes in the way Clint squirms a little and smiles at him. “And you’re doing so well. You know how beautiful you look like this?”

“No,” Clint answers breathlessly, but there’s no bite to it, not when he looks that _gone_ on Bucky’s words. He’s shaking a little bit and it’s _amazing._ Bucky shifts his weight, leans down so he can lick a stripe up to the sensitive spot under Clint’s ear, feels him shiver. He lets the tension rack up, takes his time sucking a bruise there and almost feels the strain vibrating under Clint’s skin.

“Fucking _breathtaking,_” Bucky says right into his ear, and just like _that_ Clint’s arching up and coming so hard he nearly lifts Bucky off the bed completely.

Bucky rides him through it, listens to him gasp like he’s dying and feels the heat pulse up his own spine in response. He’s _really_ shaking now, tremors right through his body under Bucky’s hands and his thighs, and Bucky gets a hand around his own dick, leans back and watches, drinks in the dazed look and smear of blood where Clint’s bitten too hard into his own lip. It’s. Wow.

“That was perfect. So good, baby, all sweet for me like this,” he tells Clint a little frantically, gets an overwhelmed-sounding whimper in reply. God, Clint’s not even on this planet right now, completely high on Bucky’s words, and the way he’s still holding onto the sheets and _obeying_ has Bucky falling off the edge too.

When he comes back to himself Clint’s watching him, but there’s something not-quite-there about his gaze, like he’s still somewhere else in his brain. Softer around the edges, somehow. Bucky thinks about the things he’d read on the internet yesterday and rubs a hand up Clint’s neck, comforting and a little possessive.

“You did so _well,_ sweetheart,” he says and Clint positively _melts_ against his fingers. “You need anything?”

Clint doesn’t verbally request anything - doesn’t seem to even remember _how,_ but his fingers latch onto the sweater Bucky hadn’t quite managed to get off before they started fucking and tug, just a little. Bucky catches on immediately, lifts up so Clint’s soft cock slips out of him and then lies down, wraps Clint up in his arms and pulls him close.

Anyone else would cry at the mess of come they’re smearing on the bed and everywhere else but Bucky couldn’t care less, and he _knows_ Clint doesn’t give a shit about cleanliness. He strokes down the line of Clint’s spine, feels warm skin and the way Clint goes boneless under his hands. It’s hard to stop the praise, so he keeps talking for a while, winds himself down as well as Clint.

When the shaking quietens down he pulls back a bit, presses a kiss to Clint’s forehead, then his nose, then down to his lips. “Okay?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Clint says, slurring a little on the _fucking._

Bucky didn’t see anyone go down this _hard_ in his research, quietly thinks that maybe this had been building up for a while, and kisses the green bandaid on Clint’s cheek. “Praise kink, huh?”

Clint makes a ‘hrmgh’ noise in his throat, but he doesn’t complain or move away. Tired, maybe, or still floating. Bucky holds him a little closer. He’d been thinking of using this to his advantage, but now he just wants to use it to _Clint’s_ advantage. It takes a few seconds to nudge Clint enough to get him to take out his hearing aids and then they’re given to Bucky. He places them next to the lamp and then gets his arm back around Clint.

“Love you,” Clint mumbles.

“Love you too, baby,” Bucky says softly, even though he can’t hear it. “Go to sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> winterhawk bingo square: praise kink


End file.
